Riddle Me Shattered
by Gidgit2u
Summary: Marcus Flint is sent backward in time through the broken vanishing cabinet during his repeat year at Hogwarts. When he comes to, he's in another time, facing the source of his boggart and left to decide between maintaining the mask of inferiority or to assume the power, the respect, that he'd been secretly building towards. The ripples in time creates waves of change.


**A/N: Written for Sing-Me-A-Rare Volume 4. My Song Prompt: 'More than a Band,' from the movie: Lemonade Mouth. My rare pair was Tom Riddle/Marcus Flint. Enjoy!**

—ooo—ooo—ooo—

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, Bloomsbury, and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended.

Marcus Flint knew he had a tendency to underwhelm, the awareness driven into him since birth. It was painfully apparent that his parents had little use or aspirations for him, with no energy past basic necessity spared.

He was the youngest; the spare to the heir, and he was painfully aware that he was the afterthought. Marcus detested his older brother, Eoghan's shiny crown of familial adoration and privilege a blinding light to Marcus's own diminished flame.

He was also a complete contrast to his middle sibling—Maeve, the cherished daughter—who apparently, unlike him, could elevate their family's station further than even Eoghan could once their father died and he took on the role of family patriarch.

The right marriage could do wonders for a reputation; especially one left to rot among the tattered ashes of a truncated war.

Despite carefully selecting the names of his two siblings from Irish Mythology, in keeping with Flint tradition, his parents had slapped the name Marcus upon him and called it a day without nary a thought to it's meaning or history.

A muggle name, a bland name, with none of the familiar history, importance or consideration his brother and sister benefited from.

Marcus's defiance to the affront of this neglect was indulging in indolence and in a blatant disregard for maintaining appropriate social etiquette's—though he secretly absorbed it all, memorizing it and masking it well under the facade of ineptitude.

His strength drew from his ability to appear weak, to appear less than what he was, what he was truly capable of.

His power was hiding in plain sight.

Marcus was so proficient in underwhelming everyone and in everything that his outward attempts at academia were disingenuous at best, earning himself the distinction of being the first student ever to repeat their N.E.W.T. year.

Even that failure hadn't garnered a flicker of response from his father.

He simply didn't matter enough.

The only thing that ever got him attention—positive or otherwise—was his prowess at Quidditch.

He was a damn good flier—good enough to maybe go professional—and his prowess on and off the broom fueled his motivation to maintain the hard earned physique of a dedicated flier.

His physique was something he had control over.

Something he'd created, all on his own. Hour after sweat-soaked hour.

And something his family couldn't claim a part of, or try and take away out of pettiness.

Marcus knew he wasn't the handsomest bloke around—his teeth were a bit wonky, his ears a tad overlarge for his mouth, and his hair danced around his head like a drunken devils snare—but that didn't seem to matter.

He'd been told his body and what it could do more than made up for any possible detractors.

Though not directly in those words. Rather, through very direct nonverbal communication and whispered words as they'd nipped at his ear and clawed at his back.

Not that his family had any clue as to where he'd have heard these compliments.

These compliments, among others, that were whispered between gasps of pleasure, between the sounds of skin sliding against skin, and in the air of the cooling softness of the aftermath. And then…

They'd part, and Marcus would go back to the dungeons while watching the departing figure make their way back toward their world of inclusion, of belonging.

It pissed him off that it was always the same.

Quick.

Hidden.

Dangerous.

Left Marcus wanting more.

It pissed him off that he did want…more!

Belonging. He wanted to belong, to someone, to _anyone_… to not have to brave the world alone.

Emotions were something a Slytherin kept close to one's chest; their indiscretions even closer, lest they sully the family name by getting an undesirable with child.

'_Like that will even happen!'_ Marcus mused, walking out of the Great Wall following dinner one evening, laughing at his well hidden passion for riding with a stick between his thighs…

His usual awareness of his surroundings was discarded, too wrapped up in thoughts of meeting Oliver Wood and the anticipation of what the Gryffindor had in store for him.

Two years! Two years they'd been snatching fleeting moments around the castle and grounds, with no one seeming to have cottoned on. The hollow victory of having a secret from his parents did nothing to fill the emptiness the disappointment at sneaking around left within him.

At least if someone had noticed… maybe…

But Oliver wanted secrecy, and Marcus was helpless to go against that.

It was Marcus's only time of true connection—their moments pressed together—and he feared if he pushed… well…he'd survived worse abandonment.

As he turned the corner toward their favourite abandoned classroom, Marcus heard the sound of running feet, felt his skull explode in pain as something hard hit the back of his head, and as he fell he saw above him the floating, gloating faces of the red-headed blood-traitor twins.

'_Oh Fuck me_,' Marcus thought, before darkness overtook him.

—ooo—ooo—ooo—

Tom Riddle was back for his final year; steel in his spine and a glint in his eye that shone like the firelight dancing off the pewter ring hugging the forth finger of his right hand.

The ring—his heritage, his…insurance.

His delicious revenge, taken before the start of his sixth year.

The year he'd shed his birth name among his peers and took the name he knew the world would one day fear to speak.

Lord Voldemort.

No one in his inner circle called him Tom or Riddle anymore. No one, except the professors and those he deemed unworthy as yet, to know. That couldn't be helped, answering to his dead name, as he had an image to maintain within these hallowed halls, until he left them forever.

The magical community was entrenched in conservatism and hysterical about birthrights and ancestry.

It wouldn't do to be too hasty—and Tom was nothing if not methodically controlled—to allow his pride and his hatred of his muggle father, to go before he was ready.

Control was everything, no matter how lonely, how… empty, he sometimes found life to be. An emptiness that had grown as the years had passed from infancy to childhood and he'd remained unwanted.

Unloved.

Underestimated.

He'd been forever formed in the flames of loss and unwant, his soul etched and hollowed by the power of neglect in abscentia. Tom had flourished when he'd discarded those emotions that made other men weak, embracing the parts of himself others would turn away from.

He'd hardened his heart to any outside affections at the age of 5 when he'd realized nothing he did or could do was enough to win affection, to ensure belonging. That the children and the matriarch at the orphanage even despised him for his uniqueness, his looks, his fixations.

And soon they would cower before him as the filth they were.

All of them, any and all who'd attempted to use him for their own gain or had written him off to their detriment.

He'd fill those holes, that emptiness, with power. He didn't believe in good or evil, only the will of those to see their vision succeed. Only the will of those to ensure the power to survive beyond all others.

And Tom would grab that power, that will, with both hands and make the world bow at his feet.

He'd do more than anyone had ever done to ensure he was invincible.

Feared.

Revered.

He'd already begun; twice.

Tom surveyed the group of Slytherins arranged around him in a manner which subtly showcased the hierarchy within those seeking his esteem.

Him, their chosen leader.

As if he'd left them a choice.

Those truer and proved loyal to the cause, his cause, sat closer to him, while those newer or untested sat further back, along the fringes.

Tom sat in a plush brocade armchair, the picture of controlled strength and commanding authority. His long, nimble fingers tapped absently upon the armrest as his gaze traveled lazily over those before him.

"My friends," his words slithered out, words drenched in smoke and wrapped in velvet. "Welcome back. I trust the summer treated you all well?"

There were murmurs and mutterings, the trivialities of the upper crust pure-bloods grating on Tom's nerves as he sat listening, the epitome of attentiveness.

"Darkness has risen, my friends," Tom said, holding his hand up for silence. Voices cut off abruptly as if a curtain had been swiftly drawn. "Darkness, both in our world," he paused for effect, "and, in the muggle world."

There was a collective shudder among the small grouping.

"The filthy muggles," he continued, "are at war with themselves, a fight that has now spread onto _our_ island."

"Avery!" Tom stated. "Why would I deign to notice a muggle war?"

Avery gazed steadily back at him, before bowing his head in deference.

"It can provide cover for the use and disposal of bodies we'd have trouble explaining away otherwise. My Lord."

"Quite right," Tom said after a beat and nodded at Avery, his eyes conveying his awareness of Avery's hesitant address, though he let it slide for now. Tom saw the slight sag of relief in his shoulders at his leniency.

"Did anyone travel to the continent over the summer months?" Tom asked.

"My Lord." Nott said.

Tom stared at him, his unwavering silence demanding he continue.

"My family, as you're aware My Lord, has an estate in the countryside near the German and French border. We retire there during the summer months."

Tom inclined his head. "And what news do you bring from your travels, Nott?"

"Grindelwald has gained many followers in Amsterdam, almost taking control of the country seemingly overnight." Nott paused, then, "however, My Lord, he met with severe resistance in Poland."

"Pity that," drawled Lestrange, not looking upset in the least.

Tom stoked his chin thoughtfully. '_That knowledge requires a more thorough inspection once I've graduated. Maybe a trip to the continent myself...'_

He turned blazing eyes upon his followers and clapped his hands down to grip each armrest, splaying his fingers, their tips indenting into the rich fabric.

"My friends! Why exert ourselves when there's a foot soldier already doing the pre-work for us." He smirked, "Though we won't tell him that quite yet."

There were chuckles from those at his feet.

He stood, and began methodically pacing before them, knowing the fire highlighted his profile to his advantage.

He knew he was captivating.

"With Grindelwald having his fun, removing those that would stand in our way, we need also to look at the advantage the muggle conflict affords. There is a leader working to purge the muggle world of their own form of human vermin, and I believe—

A muted explosion from the tall, ornate cabinet just inside the entrance of the Slytherin common room cut off Tom's speech; followed by a heavy, solid, thunk.

Weighted silence blanketed the common room as those around Tom glanced around at each other, eyes widened slightly in unease.

"Rosier!" Directed Tom, his eyes fixed upon the smaller of the boys around him.

His youngest follower.

Tom made a flick of his hand toward the cabinet as he sat back down upon his chosen throne, the baroque covered chair; his posture once more the epitome of the bored aristocracy.

Rosier rose quickly—"yes My Lord"—and scurried toward the cabinet, wand held tightly in his grip.

Tom noticed it shook slightly beside where it hung beside Rosier's thigh.

'_Maybe I held the Crucio a bit too long during his last punishment?'_

A slight frown slithered across Tom's brow; he wanted utter submission, not to dull his tools into uselessness.

He'd need more research into how long was too long to hold someone under; how many curses was too many.

Before they snapped and were forevermore wards of St. Mungos.

Or, better yet in some cases, transfigured into a bone and then buried.

"My…My Lord?" Rosier's voice carried despite his tremor as he opened the door to the cabinet.

"Speak quickly Rosier, or not at all." Tom drawled.

"My Lord, there's a body. He's wearing what looks to be Slytherin colours, but… the robes are all wrong. I…"

"Nott! Mulciber!" Tom snapped his fingers and they rose swiftly, retaining even in speed the air of superiority as befitting their birthright.

Tom's voice was icy as he stared down at his most loyal, most tested, most true.

His most despised—though none would ever be privy to that—for they knew not nor cared a whiff about what they possessed, that which he himself coveted so intimately. So desperately.

The belonging that came with inbred respect and ancestral status.

The intrinsic power of knowing you had wealth beyond measure at your disposal.

He would snatch them both away without them even realizing it. Any of them.

And they'd thank him for the privilege.

"Bring him to me."

—ooo—ooo—ooo—

The voice, surprisingly clear despite being somewhat muffled, chilled Marcus.

He'd never heard someone speak with such such condescending detachment, such resonating and amused authority. Even his parents, for all their overt disdain, never dripped such honeyed, silkened venom from their mouths.

He shuddered at the desperation he heard from those replying; their approval apparent even to him, wherever he currently was.

He'd awakened slowly from his blackout, and before even opening his eyes, he'd known he wasn't where he'd been attacked.

The smells were different, and the hardness against his hip and shoulders made him hope he wasn't in some crypt or mausoleum.

The voices gave him hope that wasn't the case.

He'd get those fucking Weasley's, once he figured out a way out of wherever he was.

Marcus kept his eyes shut and his breathing shallow as he tried to piece together what happened and figure out his surroundings without alerting anyone to his consciousness.

"Yes, My Lord."

'_My lord? What in Merlin's nutsack?'_

Muffled footsteps grew louder as they approached wherever Marcus lay, and then suddenly candlelight flickered upon the skin of his eyelids squeezed shut over his eyes.

He listened to a reedy voice tremble as he spoke to the apparent leader, the one with the voice of ice, and announced Marcus's presence.

There was silence, then two more sets of feet, these ones more confident in their strides, and Marcus found himself hauled ungracefully and with more than a bit of pain out of—a cupboard?—and flung down upon a stone floor.

"Pick him up."

The chilled words permeated his bones, but Marcus refused to shutter, refused to make any indication of his alert state.

He assumed they would physically pick him up as they'd done to remove him from his previous containment, however, he wasn't surprised when he felt his body lift instead and begin floating weightlessly forward.

_'Wizards then, not muggles, thank Merlin_.' Thought Marcus, before he was dropped, yet again, unceremoniously upon the stone floor. Even the feel of the thickened fibres of a rug below his body didn't prevent the sharp sting of pain from lacing through his body at the impact.

It wasn't quite an unwelcome feeling.

"You are awake." Statement, not question. "Look at me, let me see you."

Marcus felt a compulsion to open his eyes, and found himself looking up at the fittest bloke he'd ever laid eyes on.

The man was positively sinful looking, and Marcus felt his body thrum with awareness.

His breath caught, and he rolled fluidly from the heap of limbs he'd been so disgracefully arranged in from the fall into an almost perfect semblance of a bow.

Though Marcus didn't even realize he'd done so.

He flicked his eyes quickly around him before resettling on the man in front of him, the man with the perfectly coiffed hair, smooth skin, and those piercing, fathomless eyes that he couldn't stop himself from staring into.

He'd noticed three things as he'd quickly flicked his gaze around.

First, the young men—no ladies surrounded him, just blokes—wore what looked to be Slytherin attire, but the style was…off, slightly old fashioned. On the wizard in front of him, the head-boy pin was secured over the heart. Marcus knew who this years head boy was and it wasn't the person in front of him.

So, students then, and at least sixth and seventh years based on his quick assessment .

Second, Marcus was definitely in the Slytherin common room, that much was clear, though the furniture appeared in better condition than he'd last seen it.

And third, Marcus realized that he was kneeling beside his house-mate's father. Yet the student who he recognized as Mr. Nott looked to be the same age as Marcus himself, and not the age he'd been just two years past at The Quidditch World Cup.

'_What the bloody fuck is going on?' _Marcus thought.

"My thoughts exactly." The man spoke softly yet with steel coating every syllable. There would be no deceiving him, Marcus knew instinctively.

'_Did he just read my mind?!' _Marcus thought frantically. He knew what legilimency felt like and he hadn't felt a thing!

The man's lips twitched, as if amused by Marcus, and rose elegantly from his seat to stand tall before Marcus.

"Tell me, my friend," his voice spinning the words as a spider sound a web, drawing his prey closer. "Who you are, and what business you have hiding in the cabinet?"

Marcus felt his tongue begin forming words without direction or permission from his brain. The twitches in his fingers the only indication that a compulsion charm had been wordlessly, wandlessly cast upon him.

Again.

Marcus wasn't a fan of compulsion charms, they reacted negatively with his mind, attacking his nervous system if held under for longer than five minutes, or if used more than thrice in a span of ten.

"My name is Marcus Flint, pure-blood and a seventh year Slytherin. I'm…uh, well, I'm unsure how I got to be in that cabinet. I mean… I was assaulted—"

Now that he said that, remembered the hit, Marcus felt the forgotten pain bloom in his head as if waiting for him to remember, taking his breath away momentarily.

"I was assaulted in the hallway, a blow to the head. I blacked out. Next I know I'm meeting you all here, I'm in a different uniform to yours, but not really, the common room's in better shape than I remember and this bloke here"—he jerks toward Mr. Nott— "is the father of my classmate, who is the age he himself appears now. Oh, and my head hurts like a Hippogryff mated with a Thestral upon it."

Silence.

Heavy, poignant silence.

Marcus saw a flicker of…something, in the head boys gaze before he witnessed a cool mask of detached serenity descend effortlessly and naturally upon his features.

"Well now, what a tale Mr. Flint. Much to unpack…yes, but first!" He clapped his hands and the boys around Marcus snap to attention. "We can't let one of our own languish in pain, now can we gentlemen?"

Marcus heard murmurs of confused agreement around him, and the head boy put his hand out, apparently to stop anyone from asking a question. "Mr. Flint, do you know who assaulted you?"

"Two Gryffindors." Marcus shook his head in regret at the loss of possible revenge and the now ill-fated tryst that had awaited him. "Though I'm beginning to suspect they are all gone. Long gone."

"Quite." The head boy said, and Marcus swore he saw that same flicker pass through his eyes once more. "Seeing as I'm head boy, and it's after curfew, I will bring you to the infirmary myself to ensure your safe passage. We'll then head up to see our illustrious headmaster, Professor Dippet."

The head boy then snapped his head around. "Lestrange, have the house elves set up an extra bed in our room. And Rosier…"

"Yes My Lord?"

"Do try and refrain yourself from spreading rumours until my return."

"Of course, My Lord. You have my word I won't betray anything witnessed or heard tonight."

"See that you don't."

'_There's that 'My Lord' bit again. Who the bloody hell is this bloke?'_

There was disdain upon the head boys face now, confusing Marcus.

"I have been remiss, please accept my apologies. My name is Tom Riddle, and I am the head boy here at Hogwarts."

He stuck his hand out for Marcus to shake, and when their skin touched, Marcus was surprised to feel a slight jolt across the surface of his skin, the flow of energy, of… _something_…pulsing between them.

Heated eyes of the deepest obsidian met his own and Marcus stifled a gasp as their gazes held, breaking apart as suddenly as their handshake.

The name rang a bell somewhere in the back of Marcus's brain, but he couldn't place it. He was far too interested in what had just transpired.

"Come along Mr. Flint." Tom's mouth curved slightly, right cheek dimpling as it creased to accommodate the possibility of a fuller grin. His eyes, however, were now hard, unyielding and fixed un-waveringly on Marcus. "The night is growing ever darker and the infirmary awaits. Good evening, my friends."

And with that they turned away to begin their ascent.

—ooo—ooo—ooo—

Tom hated not knowing, hated puzzles that left him wrong footed.

He detested not being able to figure out the puzzle beside him. Not without either showing his hand or, at minimum, raising some flags.

Marcus Flint, if Tom wasn't mistaken, and he prided himself on rarely being so, was from the future.

That was the most logical conclusion based on his comment about Nott. A comment that hadn't gone unregistered by both Tom and Nott himself.

'_But how? And more importantly, why?'_ Tom's mind was a maelstrom of supposition, but kept his demeanour projecting nothing but austere competence.

"What year is it, where you're from?" Tom asked smoothly, sliding the question out delicately like one would a slivered knife under the edge of sealed parchment. He was pleased to see Flint's head jerk toward him, surprise evident before his face shuttered all emotion and smoothed into benign politeness.

'_Intriguing_!' thought Tom. '_He knows the game, even if he doesn't realize he's been brought out to play.'_

"Ummm, right… I guess, Er…yeah, that makes sense, I meant, this being the past and all." Flint scratched his head, his thick locks haphazardly parted and so disheveled it brought forth thoughts of deliciously improper and vulgar things.

Tom raked his gaze along the vertical line of Flint's body, noticing as he did the flush that tinted the other's cheeks.

He tore himself away, furious of himself for letting his body, his mind, betray him.

Tom refused to spend his time on foolish thoughts and indulgences. That was for baser individuals.

He was above that. He was…

Tom refrained from rolling his eyes.

Why in Merlin's name was he saddled with a simpleton, even one who knew how to play the game of the pure-blood elite? One with the apparent ability to send Tom's thoughts in atypical directions.

Marcus Flint wasn't _attractive_, not really, not as far as human aesthetics went.

He had a…different composition to his features than those of Tom's ilk, though robes well concealed that which was cloaked.

Tom was drawn to different, sought out that which carved sculpture from stone if only to see what would then turn it to dust.

That was all it was, all this curiosity was.

"Your observation skills as well as your ability to vocalize a complete cohesive sentence astound me, Mr. Flint," Tom drawled, then halted abruptly, Flint slowing to a stop on his right. They were midway to the infirmary, and not a soul or ghost was in sight in the draughty corridor.

Tom turned toward Flint and flashed his most charming smile; the smile that made everyone in Tom's path acquiesce to his requests without thought or bother.

"Would you be so kind, Mr. Flint, as to answer my question?"

Tom was only going to ask once.

The nice way.

The socially approved way.

His charm nor his question seemed to move the time-traveler in front of him in the slightest.

Rather, Flint was regarding him as one would an insect in a jar, and a feeling Tom had forgotten from many years prior began heating up his skin around his collar line.

Judgement.

Dismissal.

"Why don't _you_ tell me instead what year this is, and we can go forward from there? Mr. Riddle." Flint's voice was calm, too calm, and it shattered the hold Tom had on his mask.

On his temper.

On his pride.

Grabbing the front of Flint's robes, Tom shoved him behind a pillar and into a shadowed alcove illuminated only by the waning moon filtering through the lead-paned windows.

"You ingrate." Tom hissed, his body pressed almost flush against Flint's in the confines of the alcove, a mere inches separating their chests. Tom's wand was at the other's throat as he glared down on him. "No one denies me Flint. You will soon learn to fear my wrath. The wrath of Lord Voldemort!"

Before he delved with savage glee into the mind before him, Tom was gratified to see the desired fear flooding Flint's face upon hearing his name; absolute terror, and then…painful understanding, blossom in his eyes upon hearing 'Lord Voldemort.'

'_Breaking you will be oh so delightful!'_ Thought Tom as he raised his wand.

"Legilimency!"

—ooo—ooo—ooo—

…_Mudbloods petrified…_

_…The Chamber of Secrets…Found…Opened…Myrtle, bloody pathetic, dead, Myrtle…His basilisk, his companion, slayed, killed…_

_…A boy, Harry Potter, school hero…Basilisk slayer…Lightening bolt scar…Orphan…_

_…Hatred burning…A Boggart…A distorted figure—was this figure supposed to be him?…Pervasive fear…Reverence…Respect…_

_…Flickers of screams, of flashing lights from wands…Tents…Wizards and witches running…Terror…Masks…Flashes of red…of Green…The Dark Mark…Feelings of horror, of regret…_

_…Of want…Desperate want..Wanting to be a part of the torture, a part of the masked crowd, but too ashamed to seek it…Too ashamed to believe himself worthy…Always the afterthought, the spare…_

_…A quick fumble after a match, two bodies coming together…pleasure…pain…too much, too much…not enough…_

_…The unforgivable curses—taught by a teacher, no less…_

_…The power…The yearning…The draw and the want and the desperate need for more…_

_…Broomsticks…Quidditch…Angry shouts, angrier kisses…_

_…don't leave…don't leave…stay…stay…stay…_

_…Colors, voices, sounds… all whip past, pulled forward…_

"Enough!" Flint cried, pushing Tom away from him, ripping him from his mind and wandlessly hexing him with a stinging jinx from his fingertips.

Tom staggered, shocked by both what he'd seen and by Flint being able to repel him. By him hexing him, by means even Tom himself hadn't yet achieved.

"Next time, ASK!" Flint spat between his teeth, glaring—actually glaring— at Tom.

No fear left etched upon his pale face, only rage.

Pure unadulterated, unmitigated rage!

Tom had never really, truly, felt fear. He was above such emotion.

People were afraid of him, not the other way around.

But staring into the eyes of Marcus Flint, mysterious time-traveller who seemed to know bits of his future though nothing made sense to him—Tom felt true fear for the first time in his life.

"Who _are_ you?" He whispered.

—ooo—ooo—ooo—

Marcus was beyond being frightened.

No.

Fear had left him after the first flashes of images and emotions were pulled from his brain without permission.

After Tom Riddle had all but rampaged through his deepest yearnings and treasured thoughts.

As if he had the _right_!

Now, all that coursed through his body was rage.

White, hot, pulsing, rage.

And. Oh bleeding hell! The pulsing… that wasn't rage… that was…he was fucking aroused!

'_What the fuck is wrong with me,_' he thought, keeping his eyes from connecting with the wizard he'd thrown away from him lest he wrench that thought from his mind as well.

Marcus knew he had a weakness for those who wielded control, took what they wanted; were single minded in their quest to dominate the field—whatever form that field took—and later, Marcus himself.

Oliver had been all that and more.

But fuck! This was Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord.

This simply wasn't on.

But no, actually, he wasn't.

Not yet.

Marcus surveyed the handsome wizard in front of him, the wizard panting as if he'd ran a marathon and who looked haunted by what he'd seen and what Marcus had done.

This was Voldemort, yes, the makings were there already.

Marcus could see that in the sycophants surrounding him and the manner in which he carried himself. He'd probably already began his body count, he knew from rumours he'd gleaned at his aunts that the Dark Lord had begun his reign of domination before he'd even come of age, beneath ministry radar.

Whispers had always followed power, and there before Marcus stood the embodiment of the word.

But Tom Riddle hadn't yet gone to the continent, hadn't yet begun fully cultivating what Lord Voldemort—the Dark Lord—would become in his time.

Marcus's boggart had been Voldemort.

Everyone in class had thought it was due to his family's grand fuck up in the first war. He wasn't certain, but Marcus had heard it had something to do with a broken betrothal, a misplaced imperio, a mudblood and a squib.

He hadn't given a shite about any of that.

His boggart was the Dark Lord because, to him, he was the pinnacle of everything he'd never be. He was the embodiment of all his failings, and his own desperation to belong to someone.

The Dark Lord had followers, those who would give their life to his cause.

And Marcus craved that devotion, that following, to his marrow.

And yet feared it so desperately that it manifested as the wizard in front of him, as the shadow of the man that Tom would one day become.

Marcus felt something shift within him as he stood there, taking in Tom Riddle.

Taking in the reality that he was here now, in the same year as the Dark Lord, and that Marcus had the chance, the actual fucking chance, of making his biggest fear and yet greatest hope real.

Marcus wanted to belong, but he also wanted to be valued at as an equal.

As more than just an after-thought or a follower.

The shackles of his family's disregard fall to the floor and disintegrate unseen, the burden he'd borne since he was old enough to form and retain memories lifted and Marcus was flooded by the potential in front of him.

By the possibilities.

By possibly preventing the Dark Lord's demise.

By his own worth, now that he was out of the shadows of his brother and of his own family's ineptitude.

"I…apologize." Tom said softly, his face pained as if he never had use for those words before.

'_He probably hasn't,'_ thought Marcus, and he felt a kinship, a softening toward Tom.

"You intrigue me Tom," Marcus murmured, and he stepped closer, into the space just before proprietary was truly breached.

"I know what you become. Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord. You. Alone at the top, supported by sycophants ranging from the sane to the deranged, with no one to offer balance. To offer council. To allow you the sanctuary of—"

He cut himself off and moved an inch closer.

"I know what caused you to fail, not just once but on many occasions. Your ego and your vanity, Tom, caused your ultimate downfall…"

There was a sharp intake of breath, like a wounded animal, but Marcus pushed on.

"And I am here," he swallowed. "You've seen inside, you know what I've seen, what I've lived. Felt just the tip, of what I can do."

He lifted his hand and was warmed to see Tom's eyes focus on his fingertips before his face slips into a mask of blank nothingness.

And Marcus plunged, headfirst over the cliff, placing his hand upon Tom's chest and leaning in so that they are almost touching.

He could feel the heat of Tom's breath against his forehead as he looked up into those fathomless eyes.

"I'm offering you my sanctuary, my council, my shoulders, my hand." Marcus whispered, "But I refuse to be another body at your feet, grovelling for scraps. I alone have the knowledge that can save you, Tom and I also have the knowledge that can break you."

He dropped then, suddenly and without warning, though he held his head high. "Let me walk beside you, _My Lord._ Know that I'm real, and I won't let you fall."

—ooo—ooo—ooo—

Seeing Flint on his knees, hearing his words in his ears and his name on his tongue, threw Tom as if he'd been blasted clear across the Great Hall.

Tom's world had shifted in the space between seconds.

Everything he'd been, everything he'd known shattered, left blowing in the wind of dying dreams.

"I can't pretend to know how you feel," Marcus said gently, "I'm not going to lie and say my own head isn't reeling from the clusterfuck this night has turned into."

"Language, Mr. Flint," Tom chided lightly, his voice unlike anything he'd used before.

He saw Flint, no, _Marcus_, shiver at his words, his tone, and found himself uncaring how unlike himself he was acting.

The offer in front of him was intoxicating.

In more ways that just the offer of unmitigated power and success in navigating the future.

"I'm used to being alone," said Tom, and he saw rejection flicker in Marcus's gaze as he continued to looked up at Tom. "And it will take time, to break down my walls, to know that you're real, and that your offer is true."

Tom reached for Marcus's hand, bringing him to stand, once again, in front of him.

"I have seen inside your mind, Marcus, and I know your past; how you braved the world all on your own."

He leaned in, their lips almost touching.

"I know… what you… _want_!"

Tom breathed in, the scent of apple spices and soil dampened after the rain hitting him like a bludger to his chest.

"Everything's changed. And when we leave this alcove, we'll need to figure out how to navigate this new, altered, world you've opened up to me. But know this, Marcus Flint."

He cupped Marcus's face and pierced him with his gaze.

"Always stand tall. I want you, by my side. I promise I won't let you fall either. By rights, you will walk alongside me. After all, it's not every day a man just appears from thin air to save me from myself."

Tom lowered his head and devoured the one who had offered him his most protected, most rejected, hope.

Unmitigated attention.

Power.

Belonging.

Who knew, in time, maybe he'd even permit himself to dabble with the concepts of love…

Come what may, Tom would shape the world to fall at his feet, and he'd do so with Marcus right there alongside him, every step of the way.

Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, The Dark Lord—if he wanted to be any of those, he needed to understand and actually embrace—privately—his limitations, that he was still only human and though brilliant, it sometimes took an act of pure insanity to ensure one didn't end up the destroyer of his own dreams

"Stop thinking so much and bloody snog me proper. My Lord," Marcus growled, and Tom was more than happy to oblige.

_-fin-_

—ooo—ooo—ooo—

**A/N: Here are the lyrics for 'More than a band' which this story is based on.**

I can't pretend  
To know how you feel  
But know that I'm here  
Know that I'm real

Say what you want  
Or don't talk at all  
Not gonna let you fall

Reach for my hand  
'Cause it's held out to you  
My shoulders are small  
But you can cry on them too

Everything changes  
But one thing is true  
Understand  
We'll always be more than a band

Yeah yeah yeah yeah

You used to brave the world  
All on your own  
Now we won't let you go  
Go it alone

Be who you wanna be  
Always stand tall  
Not gonna let you fall

Reach for my hand  
'Cause it's held out for you  
My shoulders are strong  
But you can cry on them too

Everything changes  
But one thing is true  
Understand  
We'll always be more than a band

I never knew you could take me so far  
I've always wanted the hope that you are  
The ones I need

Reach for…


End file.
